


resurrection

by gdgdbaby



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 09:12:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even she cannot raise people from the dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	resurrection

**Author's Note:**

> more of a brief joan character study than anything, written for advent. originally posted at [livejournal](http://gdgdbaby.livejournal.com/96280.html).

Joan doesn't miss being a surgeon so much as she misses the _idea_ of being a surgeon: that specific point in time when she had been married to her work, spent days and nights in the operation room and left the hospital feeling boneless and exhausted and utterly content with her position in life.

She hasn't lived without a sense of purpose and clarity of mind since she was sixteen, storming her way through high school and knowing without a shadow of a doubt what she wanted to do. "You can come back, you know," Carrie cajoles after Joan's suspension ends, as if everything really can fall into place again, a picture perfect life for a picture perfect girl. "We want you to come back."

" _I_ don't," Joan says, and the truth of it surprises her more than it should. The thing is—the way Joan has always dealt with failure is to keep doggedly on until she invariably succeeds. But there are no second chances in surgery. Even she cannot raise people from the dead.

 

 

(What she doesn't tell anyone is that there is a sort of heady rush that seems to come hand-in-hand with crime scene investigation, the curl of pleasure that rises from her stomach to her chest when the evidence clicks together in Sherlock's pattern, a method to the madness standing out in stark relief before them.

She rather thinks Sherlock knows, anyway.)

 

 

The day after the angel of death case wraps, Sherlock rises early (which, for him, means around five in the morning), and attempts to make her customary breakfast shake. It's the sound of something hard and plastic smacking sharply against brick that wakes her up, has her running barefoot down the stairs to emerge in the kitchen, eyes wide and hair wild.

Sherlock's got a viscous soup of strawberry and banana pieces dripping down his front. The cap of the blender lies on the floor clear on the other side of the room. Joan folds her arms. "Were you trying to—?"

"Your blender decided to vomit its contents all over me," he cuts in before she can finish, a petulant expression on his face. "It wasn't my fault."

"You're a mess." She grabs a roll of paper towels and tosses them at him. "The illustrious Sherlock Holmes, bested by a simple kitchen appliance."

"Don't joke," he mutters, wiping a bit of goo off his chin. "That thing is a demon." 

"It can be a bit volatile," she concedes. She scoops the cap up and dumps it in the sink. "Go change. Unless you'd like to smell of curdled milk all day, which is your prerogative, I guess—"

"Going," he calls over his shoulder, squelching away. He pauses for a moment at the door, lips twisting. "Your self worth shouldn't have to be determined by what you choose for yourself, you know."

She almost laughs at him, sticky and soggy and dripping all over the steps—and still trying to unsettle her with these vague, dramatic proclamations. "Thank you, Sherlock. Your input is always appreciated." She pulls her hair up into a ponytail and glances at the pool of goo at his feet. "Now, shoo."

He throws her a lazy salute and marches up the stairs.


End file.
